Memoirs of a Ninja: A literary Experiment
by Secretly Insane
Summary: Dive into the minds of various Shinobi as we explore why they do/say/eat/fear/break things. Unique notions are encouraged.
1. Chapter 1

**Welcome dear readers, to what will undoubtedly be an interesting project. My interest is merely to examine different aspects of character reflection. In this case, we have Lee, who happens to be wary of doctors. I was made aware of this after I created "For a Brother." If I come across another amusing observation, either in my own writing or others, I may create another installment. Enjoy and please, feel free to let me know what you think. Sometimes the best brainstorms come in clusters. ~'^**

** Secretly Insane**

I don't like doctors. Haven't since I was very little.

My friends all seem to think it's in my head, this uncomfortable fear. I've heard they even have a few bets on what exactly throws me off. Is it the white coats? The stethoscopes? The needles or sight of blood?

Someone even had the gall to ask me if I had been, "touched inappropriately."

Or was it something far worse, like the reminder that my job often doesn't allow for a doctor to be of any use.

That one wrong move and this youthful body's reduced to nothing more than a shell of fluids and minerals, effectively making a doctor a pointless profession that preys on the fears of the sick and frail.

I always laugh confidently whenever they bring it up as if the very idea is ridiculous.

I can't tell them that it is none of these things.

They would only try harder to figure it out if I did. The best I can do is refute them silently while I stroke a confident pose.

A white coat cannot incite fear in anything, let alone a trained fighter. It is merely a garment to cover a person. It may hide weapons, but it cannot hide intent. And I fear no man.

A stethoscope is a tool, just like any other, to aid the doctor in their mission to save lives. I am no more afraid of that then I am the kunai and shuriken that come at me on a regular basis.

Needles, on the other hand, are unpleasant in their own way. I do not mind it when my body is in pain because of something I did to it, like training or fighting. It is another thing entirely to rob me of that pain, or create more pain with such a device.

I am not a masochist, but my pain is the only way I can truly know I'm both alive and able to fight on. But again, this is nothing compared to the real reason.

Being afraid of blood is laughable, seeing as I'm often having to see so much every day. My blood flows as often as my sweat, which only proves to me just how much my efforts will be rewarded in the end.

If these trials help to stop my enemy, then let it flow until I cannot stand any longer. Let my enemy's flow so that they cannot harm those dear to me. So to fear such a pure sign of victory and success goes against everything I work for and believe.

After inducing much mental fortitude, I managed to immediately clear the air on the molestation bet. Incidentally, the idea that I didn't go around playing doctor with every available woman seemed to reassure my friends that I was going to forever be a bachelor. I'm unsure if I should take offense or not.

The last notion is a little closer, if a little insulting. I am capable of understanding the need for medics. They can and have saved many people from death in the past.

And it is true that my job would make that a moot point. If I get to a point where I am over my head and need medical attention, nothing a doctor could do would save me, even if they managed to get to me in time. In any case, it would not cause me to run the other way should they want to perform a routine checkup.

But that leaves them in the dark as to what the real reason is. Even through the smiles and the brave posturing, I, like every human I suppose, knows that I will not be youthful forever. As the years pass, my body ages. I train and stay fit, so the only outward sign is the increase of scars. I notice they seem to multiply at an alarming rate these days.

But it is not the scars that make me nervous to see those who's calling it is to heal. It is nothing so shallow as that. Nor is it any outward sign that aging often ties itself to.

The reason I fear doctors is that I know one day they will tell me that I must stop. That my body cannot take any more abuse, either self-induced or incidental. All those years of forcing it to perform better, faster, greater than ever before.

That I must stop doing my rigorous workouts and intense training regimens. For though my spirit is eternally youthful and wants to keep going, whether to see if I can outdo my last record, or make sure that my friends do not outshine me, my body simply cannot keep up.

It is odd to think that something that I have put so much energy into would bring about my downfall. The very idea is appalling. So much so that I rebel against anything that will encourage its deterioration.

Though I can't help it when someone slips a drink or two my way.

And what would I do then, if I could not fight to protect those I cherish? If my body simply broke apart mid battle, I would be able to take the hit like any warrior. There would be no shame in dying for my cause. It is another thing entirely to be told that I cannot fight, because it is already known that I cannot win.

I don't take kindly to being underestimated.

Even if that is the truth of all man, all life. Everything dies eventually, nothing lives forever. Only the will to live is eternal. The spirit to continue. The fire to outlast.

Only I don't want to think that it is alright to let go.

I don't want to accept that my days are numbered, precious as they are. And I won't let anyone tell me otherwise, even if it is under the best of intentions.

So even though I refuse to let any of those dear to me know, I can at least admit this much to myself.

My name is Rock Lee and I don't like doctors.

Because they remind me of my mortality.


	2. Chapter 2

**Here we are again! I found this today, while cleaning my computer of internet cobwebs. So instead of deleting it, I thought I would add it to my Memoirs piece! Aren't you glad!? Anyway, enjoy. ^'^**

It has come to my attention that many seem to be fixated upon my most defining feature. It was never my striking hair, piercing eyes, or dashing charm that left its mark. Instead, everyone is obsessed with knowing what is under the mask. Obviously, my nose and mouth are beneath, but I think the question has a deceptively deeper inquiry.

It is not so much that I wear a mask. What they really want to know is why?

There have been many guesses. Everything from covering scars, to misguided shame over the loss of friends. None of it is true, of course. I have no scars beneath, nor do I hide from the memories of my friends tragic deaths behind it like some coward. I am a proud shinobi, and would never admit to such things. My friends were honorable shinobi too and they deserve calm respect for their sacrifice.

Those that know me, are aware that I am level headed and in control of my emotions. They know better than to even suggest such a sign of weakness. I am who I am. I accept that I am not perfect, but that does not mean that I should allow those imperfections to cause any misinterpretations.

However, it is because of an imperfection that I must use such a cover, no matter how much attention it accrues.

I suppose if I had to pinpoint the when's and why's, I would have to say it started when I was still very small. I won't bore anyone with majority of the trivial details. They are, after all, trivial. My father had long since become a legend to me. A source of awe that I strived to be like. Even before I was old enough to join the other kids, my family had mixed feelings about my future. Some wanted me to follow in the footsteps of my father; others were strictly against anything of the sort.

The stresses of a child are nothing in comparison to that of adults, but even then what would seem like a minor problem was catastrophic to my little world. And it is very hard to grow up in a world when two conflicting ideals try to steer you in their adamant direction.

One thing they noticed, both sides of my ever opposing family, was a habit I developed during their many fights and lectures. And thus, after much deliberation, they came up with a satisfying answer. It is one of the few that I have managed to still agree with, all these years later.

Though the urges that spurred the habit have long since abated and I've quelled all reason to continue the farce of hiding my face, I realized that the cover itself had become a form of comfort. That no matter what happened in my life, I would always be in control of myself.

My name is Hatake Kakashi and I wear a mask. And in the words of the Hatake clan:

"We are ninja and ninja's don't bite their nails when they get stressed."


End file.
